Blood and Gold
by Extartius
Summary: A hunting party in the mountains of Norsca gets more than they bargained for. The encounter will either make heroes of those that survive, or else it will spell their doom!
1. Trial of the Bear

_This chapter marks the start of my Chaos (Khornate mortals) vs Dwarfs storyline. Some of the characters are based on my Warhammer armies, others originated from my Warhammer Quest days. I've bee wanting to write a Fantasy fic for a while but haven't had the inspiration. That has been remedied ever since the release of the Seventh edition rules when I started using them more regularly. Hope you enjoy this..._

**_Extartius_**

* * *

**The Trial of the Bear**

For three days the hunting party roamed the mountains. They roved out northward from their mountainous village, well-wrapped in skins against the bitter cold. The slopes were treacherous here, all year round. Shale-slopes and crevasses lurked beneath the innocent blanket of fresh snow. Mountain lions prowled and mighty rocs plied the thermals above, watchful for an easy meal.

By night they pitched their makeshift yurts in the mountainous saddles between peaks, or down in the more accessible valleys. They contented themselves with a small fire each night, preserving the kindling they had brought with them.

Each of them carried with him his allotment of food, kindling and mead. Each carried a pot of animal grease, used to protect sensitive features from the biting winds. Clad in layers of wolf-skin and and lambs-wool each man carried almost two kilos of weight, and that was without factoring in their weapons.

These men were the veterans of many raids upon neighbouring marauder tribes. The Bear Kin were aggressive in their defence of their cold heartlands and the indigenous tribes bore the brunt of their violent natures. Each of them carried a great, two handed axe, the mark of their status as Bears Claw warriors. In addition, each man carried a long, heavy-headed spear, a better weapon than the axe for taking down their intended quarry, the mighty Red Bears of Norsca.

'Tomorrow we will find him,' said the grizzled Gunder, whetting his axe-blade, his gnarled features demoniac in the flickering firelight.

'We had better. By tomorrow we'll have to start doubling back if we're to get home at all,' Hagar replied, rubbing his hands to keep the blood circulating.

'Damn coward,' Gunder spat. 'I will not return without the hide of a Red Bear. It would be a sure sign of weakness. Every slack-jawed bear-cub in the village would be waiting to challenge us and claim our axe-heads.'

'I'm no coward, Gunder,' Hagar replied. 'I'd just rather die in combat than of exposure.'

'I'd be happy to kill you myself, if it comes to it,' Gunder snarled.

'Silence, both of you,' Vagnar interjected. 'I'm sick of your puling. Do you hear me whining like a girl? Or Ulli, or Sven?'

The warriors fell silent. No one wanted to pick a fight with Vagnar Kurgansson. He was the village wrestling champion and he'd defeated seventeen challengers in the traditional axe-fight, some of them two at a time. It was a wonder he hadn't embarked upon the hunt sooner, but they were thankful to have him at their sides upon this venture. It couldn't hurt to have such a powerful warrior along for the kill.

'We will continue on until we find a bear,' Vagnar declared. 'When we have made the kill there will be plenty of meat to sustain us on the journey home.'

The nodded their assent, even Hagar was bolstered by Vagnar's stolid presence and determination.

The next day was full of clear skies and strong winds. The snow had an icy crust that crunched underfoot as the party of five hunters packed up their camp and started out afresh.

Vagnar led the way, guiding them around the subtle treacheries of the mountains. They made for the Claw Pass, a brutal passage through the Talons range that had claimed many a traveller. But Vagnar had long been familiar with the region and led them true.

Beyond the pass they came across their first bear-sign.

'Tracks,' Vagnar grunted. 'Not a huge beast, but definitely a bear. Headed north.'

'Then lead on, Kurgansson, you've led us fair thus far,' said Gunder, an edge of excitement in his voice.

'The tracks are strange,' Vagnar mused. 'It's almost as if the weight is not distributed evenly. The front paws do not make as deep an impression on the earth beneath the snow.'

'The ground is frozen, perhaps it is wounded in the forepaw and favours the rear legs,' Ulli suggested.

'Perhaps. Let us find out.'

They followed the tracks down into a steep dell. The mountainsides were riddled with hidden recesses and caves. Vagnar advanced stealthily, wary for hazards. The tracks led them straight past several openings, but then meandered out of the dell to the north.

'Our people hunted these caves out long ago,' Vagnar explained. 'The bears do not den here anymore.'

He hesitated as he made the apex of the next rise. The party bunched up around him, wondering at the man's sudden uncertainty.

'What's the matter?' Gunder asked him.

'There is a road that passes nearby, it comes down from the northern straits of Norsca and is often used by the tribes to send raiding parties down into our lands. We must be watchful for enemies.'

'Let them come,' Sven muttered. 'My axe thirsts!'

The moved on more cautiously now, watchful for enemy lookouts as they followed the bear's tracks. They crossed the road and delved deeper into the mountains beyond. At midday the trail stopped. Vagnar halted the party and indicated a complex latticework of boot-print tracks in the snow.

'What does this mean?' asked Gunder. 'Did someone beat us to our quarry?'

'No, said Vagnar. There is no blood. There are not enough tracks to indicate a struggle. One man, alone. It's almost as if…' he hesitated.

'As it what, Kurgansson?'

'Look carefully, it appears to me that the bear tracks were made by a man wearing cleverly made soles, designed to make tracks identical to those of a medium sized bear. Whoever made these tracks was using walking sticks capped with something similar to those boot-soles, so as to imitate the tracks a bear would make. That would explain the uneven weight distribution. Whoever has led us on this merry chase must be an experienced mountain-tracker to fool me like this.'

'But who would do such a thing?' asked Gunder, with a scowl like a thunderhead.

'I more concerned about why they would go to the trouble,' Vagnar replied. 'Let us move to higher ground. The maker of these tracks may yet be close by.'

They made their way up to a lofty vantage point from which they could overlook the road-vale. Vagnar pointed out to the east, indicating a dark blur moving slowly down the road towards them.

'What is that?' asked Ulli, squinting against the snow-glare.

'A wagon, pulled by bray-oxen,' Vagnar replied. 'It's huge.'

'Who do you think it is?'

'I don't know. We'll take a rest here and see if we can make it out as it comes closer.'

The others had no qualms with this. The Bear Kin could be as opportunistic as any Norseman raider. The prospect of spoils was a keen motivation for them. They settled into their furs to wait. Sven took out a strip of jerked beef and started chewing on it, resembling nothing if not a rangy hound gnawing on a bone.

Vagnar stood at the vantage like a statue, gazing out into the east, his mind a-blur with possibilities. After less than half a glass had passed by, the ox-drawn carriage was close enough for them to get a better look.

'It's like the boxes Varspoi uses to transport his brood mares when they are carrying foals,' Gunder remarked.

'But much bigger and banded in thick iron straps,' Sven added, his keener eyes making out a few more details.

The cart drew to a halt near to where the false tracks crossed the road. A figure hopped down from the fur-swathed driver's bench and unhitched a horse that had been drawn alongside, out of sight of the watchers. The figure mounted expertly and moved around to the rear of the wagon where they could not see him. The sound of clinking chains echoed up off the valley slopes.

Suddenly, in a spray of kicked up snow and ice, the horse took to its heels, rider and all, continuing down the road past the watchers at break-neck speed.

'I'd recognise Varspoi's blood-stock anywhere,' Ulli hissed. 'That horse came from our own stables… I'd swear to it.'

'Did anyone recognise the rider?' asked Vagnar. There was a round of shaken heads.

'Shall we go down and look?' asked Sven.

'Whatever is in that wagon, he certainly didn't seem inclined to stick around to protect it,' said their leader, hefting his spear thoughtfully.

Suddenly the mountainside shook with an almighty, grating roar. The wagon shuddered and rocked on its axles. The oxen shifted in fear, but were too well trained to bolt.

The rear of the wagon was smashed to flinders and twisted iron brackets as something huge and red-furred emerged from it. It was a bear. Vagnar estimated that it was three times the size of the one they thought they'd been tracking. It was the kind of bear that hadn't been seen in these mountains for millennia. The Blood Bound warriors told tales of creatures like this around the hearth of Morglin Darkspawn himself.

It was impossibly massive and redder than fresh blood scattered on clean snow. Its talons were like sickles and its teeth like daggers. Its massive shoulders bore serried lines of bony protrusions and a pair of malevolent red eyes glowed from beneath heavy brows.

The hunting party recoiled in horror, all except Vagnar, whose eyes lit with relish.

'What does this mean?' asked Ulli, his voice quavering.

'Isn't it obvious?' Vagnar sneered. 'Someone in the village bears a grudge against one or another of us. They must have gone to great trouble and expense to lead us on this wild-bear chase while they blocked our route home with this daemon of the mountains.'

'Daemon?' Hagar quavered.

'Use your eyes, fool. That thing is not natural, not even for these forsaken reaches of the northern world. Someone made that thing by summoning warp entities to possess a physical form.'

'I didn't come here for this,' Hagag protested. Vagnar and Gunder turned on him as one.

'Then what did you come here for?' Vagnar cried. Hagar tried to hush him, afraid of attracting the monster's attention. He needn't have been concerned as the thing was busy rending the bray-oxen to bloody chunks in a blood-fuelled frenzy.

'This is the kind of beast our masters hunted in the days when they first came here. I would rather die fighting that thing than some adolescent cub with claws like a baby's fingers. This is the chance that only comes along once in a man's lifetime, to gain glory unheard of or to die with honour in the process. Who of us wouldn't kill for such a chance?'

Gunder shouted his assent, closely followed by Sven and Ulli, who'd gathered all the courage they had in the face of Vagnar's tirade. Hagar quivered on the ground before him, pale and waxen.

Vagnar sneered upon him and raised his axe.

'You are not worthy of Morglin's heritage, Hagar Varlisson. You are fortunate that my Lord Khorne does not care from whence the blood flows!'

With those words he struck off the coward's head, spattering arterial blood across the crisp, white snow.

He shucked off his heavy pack and the encumbering furs, slinging his axe across his back and taking out a length of doughty rope from his pack with it's iron-hooked grapnel. This he looped across his shoulders before taking up his own spear and Hagar's. The others saw his intent and followed suit. He had become their leader through the long trek from the Red Mountain. They would follow him into glorious endeavour and relish death wherever it fell.

The four warriors, stripped to the waste and bearing only their weapons, loped like hungry wolves down towards the chaos-spawned bear. Vagnar took up the war-chant and they all joined in.

'Blood for the blood god, skulls for the throne of Khorne!'

xxx

Hagar's spear drew first blood, hurled from Vagnar's powerful right arm with all the strength of his burly frame. The tip lodged deep in the beast's left shoulder and evinced a roar of pain and fury from its gargantuan lungs. It reached back to try and swat at the shaft but there was no way it could reach it.

Then they were upon it. Sven and Ulli circled around to either side while Gunder and Vagnar took it head on, lunging at its face with their long spears. These two kept it occupied while the others dropped their spears and unfurled their grappling ropes. The wind whistled as they swung them overhead, casting them with expert precision to lodge the hooks in the bear's hide.

The men of the Bear Kin were bred strong. Sven and Ulli exerted all their strength upon the ropes, trying to drag the creature off-balance as the others gouged at it with their spears.

The creature roared with a malevolence that shook the mountains and reared up, dragging both men off their feet. Sven had the good sense to let go of his rope and retrieve his spear but Ulli clung on relentlessly, dragged across the snow on his belly until he lay in the bear's massive shadow.

Vagnar cried out at him to roll and the smaller man barely managed to avoid being crushed as the bear's forelegs came back down. It swiped at him, catching him a glancing blow with its talons which raked across Ulli's ribs. The young warrior flipped to his feet, agile as a cat and ignoring the flaring pain in his side, but he was still within reach of the monster.

It batted at him with a crunching, back-hand impact and he arced away, landing in a snow-drift several cubits away.

The bear turned its attentions back to the three remaining assailants, fixing its malevolent gaze on Gunder, who whooped and jabbed at it with his spear.

'Work around to the side,' Vagnar cried, and they circled the beast, drawing its attention this way then that, easily evading its clumsy swipes with their greater reach. Vagnar backed off and unfurled his hooked rope, setting another barb in the beast's flesh and heaving with all his strength.

The bear stumbled and Gunder dived in, eager for the kill. He drove his spear deep into the tough hide, evincing a scream of pain and causing the bear to swipe at him reflexively. The claws plunged through Gunder's throat, sending his lifeblood cascading across the valley floor as his body fell into a convulsing heap.

Mad with pain and fury, the bear stooped and closed his jaws on Gunder's torso. Blood matted the fur about its muzzle as those dagger-like teeth plunged into the man's lungs and entrails, splitting his body like a ripe fruit. Blood and gore flew as it worried at the corpse in a frothing frenzy.

As the creature reared again Vagnar cast his spear at its underbelly javelin-like. The spear buried itself in the bear's guts. He ran to retrieve the one Ulli had dropped.

'Keep your distance,' he shouted. 'It will soon tire, the amount of blood it's losing.'

Sven nodded, pale with terror but still gripping his spear with a purpose.

They baited it for a few minutes as the snow around it became saturated with steaming blood. The beast roared in its frustration, swiping at them with its gory talons and spraying them with blood. Vagnar smiled, licking his lips and taking strength from the blood of his slain compatriot.

But this was no ordinary bear. Blood was not the only thing that fuelled it. The energies of Chaos flowed through its sinews, lending it a speed and strength that was not natural.

With a sudden surge it was upon Sven, goring him with it's claws and clamping it's jaws down over his head. As it withdrew with a jerking motion, Sven's neck fountained blood, his skull cracking between the bear's back teeth.

With a growl of triumph the beast turned to face Vagnar, a maniacal grinning cast to its features, as though he had been saving the best until last.

Vagnar hurled the spear with all his strength, aiming for the creature's eyes. He missed. The axe from his back was in his hands in one swift, assured motion as the bear closed the distance between them.

He knew he was going to die, and he didn't care. He would stand at the foot of the Blood Throne before the sun set, drinking the blood of his enemies from their hollowed out skulls and revelling in the achievements of his short but bloody life.

He did not submit to his fate. He struck out at the bear's lunging swipes, hacking through thick hide and sinew. Blood continued to shower around him as he fought with all the speed and brutality of the daemonic.

The bears left paw was crippled from a multitude of powerful axe-blows. Its right was shorn off at the wrist joint. He ducked under a clumsy lunge and dragged the axe-blade through the beast's guts, spilling entrails on the snow.

He spotted Gunder's axe lying on the ground and snatched it up as he turned to face the bear once more. Using one in either hand he pressed home a flurry of telling blows that irritated and frustrated the monster's frenzied efforts.

The combatants danced a complex sequence of blow and counter-blow. Vagnar was not unblooded. Claw's raked his left arm, scoring deep and bloody grooves across his biceps. Teeth narrowly avoided crushing his collarbone in a lucky lunge, closing on skin and gristle instead and tearing a bloody hole in his shoulder. A glancing blow to his head opened a free-flowing wound across his scalp.

The reddened glow in the creature's eyes began to dim, almost as though the daemonic presence embedded in its flesh was losing its grip on the corporeal world. The bear was little more than a reanimated corpse. No natural creature would have been able to sustain so much damage and live. Vagnar waiting for an opportunity to deal it a crushing blow, sensing that the victory could be his if only he could stay conscious for a few minutes more.

With a last surge of unnatural energy the bear lunged and struck, sending both axes flying from Vagnar's hands and breaking several bones in his left hand. The pain was phenomenal. Vagnar almost blacked out as he went down to his knees. The bear reared over him, a glint of victory animating its glowing eyes.

'Well fought, Ursa Victor,' Vagnar gasped as he waited for the killing blow.

Suddenly the rearing beast jerked to the side, crying out in pain and losing its balance. It crashed down onto its side and Vagnar saw the blood-covered Ulli Uthrisson gripping a bloody rope in his palsied hands.

Vagnar recovered his cherished axe and gripped it painfully in both hands as he stood over the failing creature, looking down into those malevolent eyes.

'I take it back,' he said. 'This was too easy.'

The axe bit deep, severing powerful sinews in the bear's trunk-like neck. He hewed like a woodsman felling a tree, counting six mighty blows just to reach the beast's spine, which notched his blade. By then the creature was dead.

xxx

The story of whether Vagnar Bearsbane ever claimed vengeance upon he that had released the bear is not recounted here. The mighty warriors skinned the beast as was their tradition. They spurned it's warp-spawned flesh, however, surviving on what remained of the rations they had brought with them as they made their way back to the Red Mountain. They carried with them the bear's massive pelt and its head as their prize. Gunder, Hagar and Sven they left to be reclaimed by the mountains that had bred them.

Ulli Uthrisson went on to become a renowned adventurer in the kingdoms of the south, while Vagnar remained with the Bear Kin and became a mighty warrior, despite his crippled left hand. He spurned the honour of becoming Blood Bound for another fifteen years, choosing instead to train the young warriors of the tribe and lead them in battle. Eventually, having never been bested in a challenge, he donned the armour of the Blood Bound and was initiated into the ranks of Morglin Darkspawn's Chaos Warriors, claiming countless skulls to be laid at the feet of the Blood God.


	2. Council of Blood

_This chapter features an eleven year old boy violently murdering his elder brother. If you think I should re-rate this story please let me know either in a review or by e-mailing me._

**_Extartius_**

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The Council of Blood**

Seven men sat around the fire that burned in the centre of the large, domed yurt. The acrid fumes wreathed the interior space in ghostly drifts, serving only to make the already cramped confines even more claustrophobic. Volkna occupied the position of honour, directly opposite the entry flap that had been drawn tight against winter's chill. To his left Hengist the Mad muttered to himself in a constant drizzle of profanity, to his right Vagnar Bearsbane hunkered beneath the massive pelt that had once clothed the creature that had given him his name. Beside the man with the withered left hand, Aenir Black-Axe stroked his impressively long, red beard, fingering the many braids that intertwined it.

Skarsved Druksson was resplendant in full battle-harness complete with the brass-bound skulls that adorned his shoulder plates, the skulls of men that had owed him wyrgeld and had paid with their blood. He could almost be taken for a three-headed daemon in the hazy atmosphere of the tent. His son sat beside him, the last to arrive, he busied himself by removing his skull-helm with great care. The spiked halo had been damaged in some battle of the past, but the rest of the time Svenni fawned over it like a puling child over a puppy. Who could remember where he had acquired it? Probably not even Svenni.

Varspoi Gunnasson kept his helm on his head, complete with the horsetail plume that marked him out as the master of the stables. He was inordinately proud of his position and took pains to remind people of it whenever the chance arose. But he was the best horse-breaker of his generation, there was no denying that and that alone was enough to give people pause.

Volkna himself sat impassive, his red armour as much a part of him as the beard on his chin though less transient, the ox-skull standard rising from behind him. He was huge, bigger even that Vagnar and blessed by Khorne a thousand times over.

'This Hetgurd is in session!' he pronounced. 'Does anyone bring business?'

A chorus of nays followed.

'Then we shall proceed to the tally.'

There were strict rules of precedent among the Bears Kin's Thanes, Vagnar rose his fists first in a gesture of triumph.

'My cubs took forty-two heads, this day, Skulls for the Throne of Khorne!' He bellowed.

'My cubs took thirty-eight skulls, Khorne be Praised!' This from Svenni who was Vagnar's lieutenant in the field.

Skarsved's Bears Claw accounted for twenty-nine skulls to be laid at the altar of the Blood God while Aenir's took thirty-one. Hengist cackled wildly as he announced the tally for his Blood Flails.

'Thirty-nine!' He screeched 'Blood for the Blood God, Skulls for the Throne of Khorne!' After which he subsided into his insane mutterings once more.

'Then it is sealed. Vagnar's cubs will sit at the head of the feast and the Blood Flails will perform their Blood Rites. Do you have anything to add, Vagnar?'

'Three of my cubs have earned their axe-head, my Chieftain, and two of Svenni's also. I ask your permission that they be reassigned to the Claws.'

'Aenir, you will take Vagnar's three, Skarsved, you will take Svenni's two.'

The Thanes barked their acceptance.

'Then we move on to the division of spoils. All foodstuffs will be handed over to the quartermaster along with wine, beer, mead and milk. For my part I claim one in every five slaves and one tenth-weight of all valuable items seized. I leave it to you to select the items. Does anyone wish to speak on this?'

Resounding silence.

'Then we shall address the final item. Have there been any challenges?'

'One of my Bears Claw wishes to challenge your authority, Chieftain, the warrior named Grendelsson.'

'No others?'

Again, silence.

'Then I will meet this challenger. This Hetgurd is closed!'

Outside in the crisp, cold air, with the tang of blood still thick in the air and his eyes still streaming from the smoke of the tent, Volkna chose the battleground for his duel while Aenir went to fetch Grendelsson. The other Thanes gathered their men around them and before long the steady rhythm of axe-heads on shields rose like the heart-beat of the mountains, echoing from the crags.

Volkna came to a halt in the centre of a broad patch of snow, where the ground beneath was firm and level. The men of the Tribe gathered in a wide circle around him, their pounding now set to the throaty symphony of a rhythmic chant.

Blood. Blood. Blood.

Each man carried a sack at his belt, some larger than others, all of them soaked with gore. The heads of the slain, offerings to be made before the victory feast they would share that night. Offerings to Khorne in all his dark glory.

Grendelsson stepped into the circle and the chanting stopped.

He was a big man, broad and heavy with muscle. The ritual scars on his chest and forearms displayed for all to see. This man had made great tribute to their patron god, and now he would make another, one way or the other. He carried a long-hafted axe with a heavy counter-weighted head and two throwing axes hung from his belt. He had set aside his armour, he would aim to out-manoeuvre Volkna with the extra speed this allowed him. But Volkna could already see in the man's eyes that he knew he would not win.

It was a brave man who made this kind of offering to Khorne, one which commanded respect even from his chieftain… but this sacrifice would cost the tribe. Grendelsson was obviously capable of winning great renown for himself, if he but set his sights a little lower. He was perhaps the equal of his Thane, who would no doubt have nominated him for the Blood Binding on their return home.

It was a waste.

'Who challenges Volkna Brazen-Axe, Chieftain of the Bear Kin?'

'I, Grendelsson!'

'Then take up your arms, son of Grendel, and let all present bear witness to my oath; If I should fall, this man will take my place!'

A roar went up around them and Grendelsson twirled the huge axe in his grip, his lips stretching taught in a grimace of defiance. Volkna hefted his own weapons, axe and mace, and waited for the aspirant to close with him.

The battle was brief. Grendelsson landed some neat blows before he fell, but Volkna's charmed armour deflected them. His third return with the axe clove through Grendelsson's rib-cage, his mace crushing a shoulder. Volkna finished him quickly, sending the challenger's head arcing through the air to land with a muted thud in the snow, trailing a long spatter of red.

Not for Volkna the subtle thrust parry and riposte of sword-play, nor for any of his tribe. Single combat was ever a brief affair.

Volkna trudged over to where Grendelsson's head lay, slinging his axe and reaching down to grip it by the hair. He held it up and turned slowly to look at the gathered horde.

'Let it be remembered that Grendelsson never forgot what it is to serve Lord Khorne. When the bloodshed is done and the crows descend, we are all merely skulls for his throne.'

A mighty roar lifted to the mountainsides and the cacophony of axe-heads on shields rose like the surge of the tide.

'Let the feasting begin!' Volkna bellowed.

Vagnar's younglings relished their moment of glory that night, sitting with their chieftain at the head of the table. Volkna's long-house was filled to bursting with drunken bellowing. Slave-wenches wove in and out of the press to renew the platters and refresh the gourds of mead, accosted here and there by amorous warriors wishing to impress upon them their masculine prowess.

Volkna dandled his latest acquisition on his knee, a pretty eyed young thing taken in a recent raid against the Aesir. She had come to accept her lot with brazen good-will, her fire was not confined to the bed-chamber. A fitting concubine for a great chieftain.

'Hetman Volkna!' It was Vagnar, flanked by Aenir and Skarsvedd. 'The bloodgeld, my lord!'

Vagnar held out a horn in his one good hand, it was filled to brimming with blood drained from Grendelsson's limpid corpse. With this, Volkna would ensure that Grendelsson's vigour was not entirely lost to the tribe, but that such a brave and mighty warrior would instead become part of the chieftain that led the tribe into battle. It was mere symbolism, but the Bear Kin were superstitious. The cubs surrounding Volkna were hushed as he took the horn most reverently and downed its contents in one draught.

'Afharkh!' he bellowed, and those around him returned the toast with one voice. The Thanes slapped him on the back and the revelry continued.

Evening was a dim memory and most of the warriors lounged in a languid stupor when the doors to the outside were thrown open, admitting a howling gust of wind and snow. Two red-armoured warriors entered to flank the portal, their faces hidden beneath their enclosed helms. Volkna stood, thrusting the girl behind him, waiting for the darkness outside the door to coalesce into the bone-framed form of the Master's first lieutenant.

The Thanes followed suit, but everyone else merely cowered to either side of the isle down the centre of the long-house, making obeisance as Dhrazh Kar, the Beast Kin, strode into the house like a morbid puppet. From a distance one would almost think him a walking skeleton, but the bones one saw were mere adornments that encrusted his bronzed armour. He walked on long, slender, goat-footed legs and his head – which was in fact his head and not some macabre helm that he wore – was like the skull of the same creature, hollow eyes glowing red with the blood rage. His loping movements were fluid and graceful, the sword, which was as much a part of him as the armour, seemed to move with a life of its own.

Dhrazh Kar was a legend amongst the Bear Kin. He ventured seldom from the high halls of the Blood Bound, emerging perhaps once every three generations to march to war. The Kin feared him where they revered Moritar, who was as much Dhrazh Kar's equal as anyone.

His voice, when he spoke, was soft and sibilant. It insinuated itself upon the senses.

'I come to gather lambs that they might become sheep in the Master's flock.'

This duty was usually performed by Mortar himself, it was a strange honour for Dhrazh Kar to descend from the heights to do it himself. It foretold of great battles to come.

'Thanes,' spake Volkna, fixing Hengist, Aenir and Skarsvedd each in turn with his black-eyed gaze. 'You each have witnessed the deeds of your men. If any have proved themselves worthy of the Rites, let their names be spoken and let them come before me.'

Aenir stepped forward.

'Ghaskar, Vaegis and Borr, stand before your Chieftain!' Three gnarled warriors extricated themselves from the tangles on either side of the aisle, giving Dhrazh Kar and his warriors a wide berth to stand before Volkna, pride and fear shining in their eyes.

Skarsvedd spoke two names and Hengist three more. Volkna eyed them, one by one, gauging their readiness.

'From this day on, you will be numbered among the honoured dead. The Master will hold your skulls in trust until such time as they are laid before the throne of Khorne. If you refuse this destiny, may the Red Hounds rend your soul! Do you accept?'

'We do!' they bellowed in reply, raising their hands, clenched as fists.

'Follow, my lambs, I will bring you into the fold,' hissed the goat-headed warrior, gathering the trembling warriors to him and herding them out into the snow. The attendant warriors sealed the portal behind them.

'Drink to the dead!' Volkna cried and a cheer went up. The celebration escalated once more.

Vagnar sidled up beside the chieftain, excitement lighting his eyes.

'What doe this mean, Hetman? The Beast Kin roused from his long slumber…'

'Perhaps he had foreseen some great battle in his red dreams, my thane. Whatever it may be, may the Lord Khorne's will be done!'

xxx

The next day brought clear skies over the Red Mountain. Vagnar took a horse and two ponies from Varspoi's stables and took his two sons riding. They passed through the redwood palisade and onto the ramp with its skull-capped pikes in rows on either side.

Vagir, thirteen winters old and the son of a white-haired Aesir slave-girl he'd claimed nearly seventeen years earlier, chattered inanely as was his wont. The other boy, Kaine, was dark and silent in complete contrast to his elder brother. He was the progeny of a Kislevite wench he had traded from a Hung warband, returning from a border war in the south. She had outlived the blond bitch by a good few years with her low-burning hatred sustaining her through the hardship of being Vagnar's favourite mate. Kaine suited Vagnar's moods better than Vagir, despite the fact that he was two years younger.

They rode down into the lowlands, sheltered by the Blood Peaks that ran down from the flanks of the Red Mountain like so many councillors paying court to their chieftain. The valleys were a haven in the harsh northern lands. Sparse grasses sustained a small herd of lowing cattle and hardy sheep. Goats grazed the higher slopes, watched by hardy young boys with keen eyes and a ready sling to ward off wolves.

This was the breadbasket that kept Morglin Darkspawn's insular community fed. It was hard won and the Bear Kin protected it with all the vigour of the Blood God's ire from the neighbouring Aesir and Vanir tribesmen.

Two passes let out onto the Norscan wastes, mountainous hinterlands permanently locked in snow and ice. To the north Blood Pass was guarded by the infamous Carnadine Gate, manned all year round by the Blood Bound warriors of Chaos. To the south and west, Axehead Pass was open to the steppes of the Troll Country, giving the Bear Kin easy access to the western borders of Kislev and the northern limits of the Empire, Morglin's eternal enemy.

It was into the mouth of this pass that Vagnar took his sons. Mounting up to the lofty saddle between the two mountains that guarded the pass he dismounted, securing the warhorse to a thicket. The boys followed suit, Vagir still chatting about something and nothing while Kaine brooded, his dark brows pulled down over obsidian eyes, his pudgy little fists clenching and unclenching.

'Look out, my boys, upon what men of the Empire call the Troll Country,' he declared, spreading his arms in a flamboyant gesture.

'Through this pass have I marched, seven times, carrying my axe on my back and my rage in my heart.' He turned to face the boys, seeing that at both were attending to his words. 'Does either of you know the reason for our Lord Darkspawn's exile?'

Vagir shook his head slowly, anticipating punishment for his ignorance. Kaine spoke out.

'Our lord was the son of Arlus the Bear, chieftain of our tribe when the Empire was still a dream of the future.' Kaine spoke eloquently, he had the spark of an orator, a rare thing amongst the Bear Kin. 'Arlus was called upon to fight at the Battle of Blackfire Pass, alongside Sigmar himself and the Unberogen. But our people were ambushed as they marched south and Arlus was slain. Lord Darkspawn slew in turn the Braygor that had killed his father, whereupon he took up the creature's accursed axe and used it to defeat our enemies.

'Morglin led the Bear Kin to Black Fire Pass, but the battle against the orcs was done and Sigmar scolded our master for his lateness. When the lands of the Empire were divided up, the Bear Kin were given but a small tract of land, infested with orcs, goblins and beastmen. To another man was given the title of Elector Count, and the Bear Kin were thus spurned.

'Our lord rallied to his banner other tribes so mistreated and they rose up against the so-called Emperor. But Sigmar had the favour of the Dwarfs, they had been gifted with great cannons with which they punished the unruly ranks of our lord. The Bear Kin were banished from the Empire for all eternity, we ended up here.'

'You have listened well to the bards of the tribe, young one,' said Vagnar. 'You are right, of course. We were dishonoured through no fault of our own, delayed by the ambush of the perfidious beastmen. But that day was a blessing indeed, for on that day, Morglin took up the axe Azzh n'Agh and began in his service to the Blood God.'

He turned back to survey the leagues and leagues of broken plain.

'War is all we know. The spilling of blood, the taking of skulls, the claiming of spoils. Blood for the blood god!'

The boys repeated his chant, though only Kaine appeared to have the conviction Vagnar sought. The dark boy seemed to notice Vagir's lacklustre praise and he turned upon him.

'What do you know of it, Vagir. All you care about is that girl, Freya.'

'What's this?' Vagnar enquired.

'Nothing, father, Kaine doesn't know what he's talking about…'

'Liar,' Kaine blurted, shoving his elder brother in his pent up anger.

Vagnar observed Vagir's reaction. The boy looked nervous, his eyes shifting and the colour draining from his flushed cheeks. This was not the way disputes were handled by the Bear Kin. Vagir was as soft as his puling mother.

Kaine, on the other hand, he knew the proper way to prosecute such disagreements. He punched his brother square in the jaw, knocking him to the ground. He didn't stop there. Vagir cried out, curling into a ball as Kaine kicked and spat upon him. Blood started from a split brow and his nose burst red. The stony ground tore into his soft flesh as Kaine laid into him.

Vagnar watched with a sense of fatalistic interest, favouring Kaine with a querulous glance when he stepped back at last from the whimpering wreck of his eldest son.

'What's this? Why have you stopped?'

Kaine looked up, a sudden fear manifesting on his features.

'I taught him a lesson, father…'

'NO!' Vagnar stormed, his rage eclipsing the sun for a moment as he loomed over Kaine, small stones skittered from the slopes as his voice echoed from the mountainsides. 'The only lesson we teach here is DEATH! A man LEARNS or he DIES! Do you want to be a man, my son?'

'Y… yes, father!'

'Then finish the lesson!'

Kaine flinched, but he did not shy away from his duty. He took up a stone, so large he could barely lift it over his head. Vagir screamed as he saw what was happening, but that scream was cut short as the rock dashed out his brains.

Vagnar smiled.

'Ho, there!'

He spun on his heel at the greeting, seeing a burly, fur-sheathed man leading a pony and cart around a spray of boulders in the road below.

'Who goes there!' Vagnar challenged.

'Why, Vagnar, my old friend. Don't you recognise me?'

As he moved into sunlight from the shade of a boulder a sudden joyful recognition dawned upon Vagnar. It was Ulli Uthrisson, returned at last from ventures far and wide.

The two men greeted each other with a bear-like embrace. They had been solid friends ever since their shared experience in the Trial of the Bear. Vagnar had missed like no other since his departure all those years ago.

'Where have you been, old friend?'

'Prospecting. I took up with some men of a similar ilk and return home a wealthy man. I never would have believed it could be so easy to steal gold from a dwarf… What's happened here?' A look of horror flashed briefly across his features as he laid eyes upon Vagir's corpse. He hid his revulsion well, but judging by his reaction Vagnar got the impression that he'd been too long from the ways of the Bear Kin to understand it.

'Today, my friend, my youngest son has become a man. You must bear witness to this for me, I will have it no other way.'

Slinging an arm over Ulli's shoulders and without sparing Kaine another glance, he led the way down into the valley


	3. Red Dreams

**Red Dreams**

A red sun set behind a hill of bleached skulls, limning the macabre horizon in a blood hued haze. Lothiri Moritar staggered and stumbled, gasping with fear and losing his breath as the great horned brute stood out against the flaming perspective once more. He knew he must be dreaming again, but try as he might he could not force himself to wake up. The thing drew itself up and spread its leathery wings. Its eyes blazed redder and brighter than the sun behind it.

It took a step toward him, the mound of skulls shifting as it approached like so many grains of sand upon a desert dune-scape. The gaping, eyeless skulls bounced past him, gathering about his knees and almost burying him to the waist.

The daemon towered over him at last, piercing his soul with those eyes of flame. It stooped, reaching down with its massive claw to engulf Moritar's head, stroking his hair like a loving father.

Moritar knelt, frozen in apoplectic terror, silently begging for wakefulness to end this horrible dream.

_A dream of the future._

He had no idea where the thought had come from, though it sounded within his own skull. He looked around at the landscape of death and it seemed as if every skull had fallen so that it gazed upon him. Every pair of empty eye sockets was directed at the encounter between Moritar and the daemon of his dreams – and suddenly he felt a glimmering of understanding…

_These are my victims, the manifestation of all those that will fall before me in battle._

The realisation would have staggered him had he not already been upon his knees. There were more skulls here than there were pearls on the Rainbow Ceiling of the Temple of Sigmar. How could one man alone be the harbinger of such genocide?

Looking once more upon the daemon he thought he knew the answer to that question too.

He knew the name that was whispered in the underground warrior lodges of Marienburg where the ritual combat demanded the death of one or all of the combatants. He resisted the urge to utter that arcane syllable even in the confines of his own mind.

The daemon smiled, compounding the image of a proud father showing approval upon his favoured son.

'No!' he cried, wrenching himself out of the creature's great talons and lurching to his feet. 'I won't be your plaything!' he cried, turning to run from the brute, tripping and stumbling on the treacherous, shifting surface. The eyes of his victims followed him, he remained at the epicentre of their blank regard.

Laughter rolled over him. He risked a backward glance only to see the daemon rocking back on its heels, its massive head thrown back in amusement. It spread those bat-like wings once more and took to the blood-red sky, looming large over the helpless warrior even as he tried to escape.

There was no escape.

The shadow of its wings engulfed him, plunging him into darkness, smothering his soul with black despair.

Finally he woke, spluttering and breathing heavily with his unconscious exertions and abject terror. He woke in the lush apartments he'd rented in Marienburg and but still he cast about himself to make sure of the solidity of his surroundings, free of staring, eyeless skulls.

As his heart rate dropped and the clammy night-sweat of his thrashings beaded on his chilly skin, he came back to his senses.

Just a dream. A terrible nightmare.

He wished he could be free of these nightmares.

They took him back in his memory, ten years, almost to the day, to those frozen steppes of northern Kislev…

xxx

The Red Knight had left a rearguard to slow his pursuers. Moritar put another of the brutish northerners down with his short stabbing sword and waded deeper into the fray, shoulder to shoulder with Franco and Lars as they pressed home the assault.

Somewhere off to the right the Boyar's cavalry had become bogged down after a cautious advance up into the treacherous pass. Moritar had told him that horses would be useless up here, but as ever, his advice had been ignored. It would serve the man right to be thrown off a precipice in return for his arrogant pride.

He turned his attention back to the marauders, hacking and stabbing his way through the unruly ranks, trampling the dead and wounded in his relentless advance. His mercenary brothers held formation around him, minding each other's vulnerabilities with practised ease. The northerners were no match for them.

'Press home!' he cried. 'Let us teach these Kislevites a lesson in how to fight a battle properly.'

They were nearing the apex of the pass. The marauders were becoming increasingly desperate. Moritar could sense that they were about to break and when the moment came he was ready. They pursued the raiders into a narrow cleft that opened out into a tree-grown box canyon, catching half a dozen of them as they ran. That was when the Red Knight sprang his trap.

Moritar cursed his impetuosity as the red-armoured warriors closed in on his men from either side. Caught out of formation they began a desperate fight back, but the trap was too well laid and they quickly foundered.

Moritar, Franco and Lars fought back to back as the huge warriors of Chaos closed in around them, the rest of his men slain. A massive sword took Lars through the neck and Franco lost his legs to an impossibly huge axe, leaving Moritar standing in the midst of a ring of foes.

'Now would be a really good time for a cavalry charge, my good Boyar,' he gasped with fatalistic humour. 'Come on then, you whoresons, who's first?'

The Red Knight himself stepped forward, hefting that distinctive war-hammer with its griffon totem capping the well-worn haft..

'In the night, my lord Khorne granted me a vision of you, Lothiri Moritar.'

'What? How do you know who I am?'

The Knight ignored his question.

'I have brought many skulls to the Brazen Throne in these past three hundred years, but my lord Khorne has ordained yours as one of the most significant. Upon your skull lies the price of daemon-hood.'

'What do you mean?'

'Enough talk. Put up your sword.'

The Red Knight fell to it, his hammer describing a long overhead arc toward Moritar's head that was just barely evaded. His retinue backed away, forming a broad ring of red armour and bright steel as the combatants circled.

Moritar traded blows with the Chaos warrior, unable to breach the Knight's preternatural defences and managing to escape death and wounding by only the merest fractions. He felt the strain telling on his sinews, but the battle-rush was upon him, lending him new reserves of strength. He knew that if he survived this encounter he would be recovering for days, but he thought it unlikely. Even if he did, by some miracle, defeat the Red Knight, his retinue would never let him leave this place. Resigned to death, he threw everything he had at the chosen warrior of Khorne.

After several more cuts and parries his body began to betray him. The sword was like a bolt of lead and his armour chafed at every joint, weighing heavier than he had ever experienced in his years on campaign. The Red Knight seemed untouched by fatigue and yet his blows kept falling short or going wide. His frustration was showing.

Moritar swayed, knowing that the warrior wouldn't keep missing forever. His life hung by a thin red thread. Hopelessness and desperation welled inside him. And then, in his mind's eye he saw the great horned beast of his nightmares, a knowing smile on its bestial features. He sensed an offer in that smile. His rational mind recoiled from the thought, mindful of dire, unmentionable consequences. But his warrior's spirit grasped at it, desperate to win at any cost.

– Fire blazed through his veins and his vision ran red. Foam flecked his lips and he charged, his sword held like a spear before him. –

The Knight's hammer smashed into his shoulder, a glancing blow that stripped away his armour and would bruise horribly, but not accurate enough to stop Moritar from getting inside the Knight's guard to plunge his sword into the warrior's torso. The blade slid in between the plates of his ancient habergeon and broke off. Steaming blood gushed forth and the Red Knight staggered back.

With an incoherent bellow of rage and confusion the Red Knight charged, bearing down on Moritar with relentless fury. With new strength flooding through him Moritar easily side-stepped and the Knight fell headlong onto the ground. Moritar stamped down hard on the warrior's wrist and hand, breaking the warrior's iron grip on the ancient war-hammer and snatching it up.

As his hand closed around the worn haft a flashing red image flashed before his eyes. The horned daemon was laughing now.

The Red Knight rolled over, struggling to regain his feet. Moritar raised the ancient weapon high over his head. He brought the hammerhead down on the Knight's helm, feeling the crunching impact shiver through his arm and shoulder. He brought it down again, finding it surprisingly light in his hand.

Before long the Red Knight's head was little more than a bloody smear on the ground and Moritar regained his senses, realising that the last few seconds had been a red frenzy in his mind.

He looked around him, wondering why the retinue had not cut him to pieces. They stared at him in silence, their weapons held at ease. One of them stepped forward and raised his bloodied mace in some kind of salute. He spoke in deep reverberating tones.

'Your journey begins here, Kinslayer, but you must take the next stage alone. When you are ready to join us we will be waiting. Seek us beneath the Red Mountain, four hundred leagues north of this place.'

Moritar slumped, finally giving in to his exhaustion as the frenzy washed away. He sat down heavily upon the Red Knight's oozing corpse, unable to even contemplate the meaning of the chaos warrior's words. The warriors moved off, retrieving their steeds from a copse of gnarled mountain ash and riding off into the north, their mortal warriors following suit.

He had no inkling of the passage of time, but the sun had not yet set when the Boyar led his winged lancers into the head of the canyon.

'Is that you, Lothiri, what are you doing there?'

Moritar looked up. The Boyar hadn't even bothered to dismount.

'What does it look like I'm doing, you great oaf. I've killed the whoreson that ambushed my men while you were still fiddling with your reins down on the slope.'

'That's the Red Knight?' asked Captain Hadlin, a note of awe in his voice.

'Shut up, you fool, obviously it isn't the Red Knight. It's merely one of his hangers-on that our mercenary friend has managed to best. By the looks of things he spent his men to do it…'

Moritar felt fresh strength flow into his limbs, driving him to his feet in a flood of sudden rage.

'You fool! Because of your ineptitude my men were slaughtered like pigs, I should smite you into oblivion like the human offal you are…'

The Boyar smiled his infuriatingly superior smile.

'Hadlin… if you please…'

The captain of the winged lancers dismounted, fearfully obedient, knowing that to disobey was as sure a death sentence as the order to dispense his master's justice. Moritar did not wait – he crushed the captain as easily as he would an insect, his newly acquired war-hammer breaking the man's head like a rotten fruit.

The Boyar's men leapt into action, several reigned about, escorting the nobleman away from this new threat while the rest closed in on Moritar, their lances flashing in the evening sun. He laid about him, descending into a frenzied red haze once more. Three fell to his measured swings in as many seconds. The rest broke away and began circling.

When the first man tried to ride him down he took the horse's legs out from under it, returning the swing to crush the knight's chest in a single mighty blow. The second tried to skewer the mercenary captain, but the veteran of many a cavalry charge, he easily batted the lance-tip aside and let it bury itself in the rocky ground. The lancer flew from his saddle with the force. Again Moritar was there to finish him.

The third turned and fled, racing to catch up with the Boyar and his men, who were making their way through the cleft and back into the northern provinces of the Empire.

Moritar retrieved the Red Knight's own steed from its tether and contemplated his next move. He doubted he would be welcome in the service of the border marches once word of this got around. Perhaps it was time to seek employment in the south.

Reining the powerful steed around he drew a course for the Empire.

xxx

Lothiri Moritar settled into the upholstered chair and waited for the morning, trying not to think about the journey he had embarked upon after that particular episode of his life.

The casket on the table sat in silence at last, his only memento to the human past he'd discarded so long ago. It was draped with his thick, woollen travel blanket, it had helped to muffle the wailing when it became unbearable the night before. The key was cold against his chest where it hung upon a leather thong abound his neck.

He had decided.

It was almost time to make the final pilgrimage.

He must make preparations.

xxx

Adolf paled as the massive, hardwood desk he had been sitting behind fell in two splintered halves before him. It had been an antique, an heirloom passed down to him by his wealthy grandfather as a reward upon his successful enrolment in the Colleges of Magic. The wood that had constituted the writing surface was thicker than his arm and it had been shivered to pieces as though it were mere kindling.

'I don't give a damn about the Pygmie Tribes of the Eastern Steppes, Leipzig,' growled the stocky dwarf, his massive rune axe held threateningly before him. 'And I couldn't care less about your hopes for the Puliger Prize for Feats of Academia in the Field of Anthopology!'

Karzaki Darstok's gravely voice was low and threatening, but he was building up to his next declaration, which he uttered in loud and violent tones.

'I WANT ULLI UTHRISSON!'

Adolf's copious amount of well-oiled curls settled back into place as the wind of Darstok's bellowing died away. He wiped a drop of spittle from his cheek with a lace kerchief.

'My dear, Karzaki,' he said, in the mildest tones he could muster. 'The Red Mountain is not easy to find. It is even less easy to arrive at that accursed place unmolested. I understand that we once had an… arrangement, but I'm sure your dwarfish honour will prompt you to remember that the contract was satisfied as per the terms of the contract…'

'Don't give me excuses, Adolf. I won't be turned away…'

'Indeed.' Adolf stood with all the dignity he could muster and stepped over the remains of his beloved writing desk. 'I may be able to help you, but there will be a price.'

'Name it!'

'I merely ask that you remember the favour I do for you today and promise to one day return it. You never know when next I might need the strong arm of a reliable sell-sword like yourself.'

The dwarf scowled. Adolf hated it when he did that, it made the candle-light flicker and darken like storm-clouds passing before the sun. The air fair throbbed with tension when those steel-grey brows drew down over his topaz eye and that damned eye-patch.

It was plain that the dwarf was not happy about the price.

'I'll promise you the aid of my clan, wizard, but I cannot promise you my own personal attention…' and here he clenched his teeth in frustration as he said, 'It is not necessarily mine to give.'

Responsibility weighed heavy upon the dwarf, these days. Adolf was not privy to the reasons, but Karzaki was no longer the carefree adventurer he had been in his youth. It was a shame. It made him a tetchy old soul, prone to the impulsive destruction of other people's property with utter disregard for the proprieties of high society.

He supposed the loss of several tonnes of raw gold, recovered through perilous venture from the dangerous pits and crevasses of the Worlds Edge Mountains, would have that effect on a dwarf. He was only surprised that the old codger hadn't taken the Slayer Oath right there and then upon finding out that it had been taken. He was fairly sure that if it turned out to be beyond recovery, this would be the end result.

'I suppose that is sufficient,' Adolf agreed, spitting on his palm and holding it out. The dwarf followed suit, enveloping the wizard's dainty hand in his own, raw-knuckled grip.

'Got any beer?' the dwarf inquired, much calmer now that a trade had been sealed in spit. 'I always like to have a drop over negotiations!'

Adolf rolled his eyes.

xxx

The Ten Pennies tavern was a tame affair, by Karzaki Darstok's standards, full of foppish noblemen's sons and their hanger's on; wealthy merchants with their affectations and the usual go-betweens that provided them with their desired vices. The doormen were rounded and soft, the barman a skinny wretch with sallow skin and a miserly shiftiness to his eyes. At least the place wasn't a dead-loss then.

Darstok could respect a miser.

'They sell anything decent in this place?' he asked as Adolf led the way to the bar.

'Don't worry, old friend, I can't think that any of it will meet your standards.'

'That's as it should be, but I'd love a drop of Bugman's Sixty if they can find their way to a drop.'

'I'll see what I can do. Why don't you find us a table somewhere in the back?'

The dwarf nodded his assent, trudging into the rear of the common room, where a number of booths lined the back wall, all of them occupied. Unperturbed, Darstok picked one at random and hopped up onto the upholstered bench.

'Don't mind me, lads,' he said as the three young dandies turned to regard their uninvited guest. 'Carry on as you were…'

'Pardon me, sir,' one of them piped up, a skinny lad decked out in purple and yellow silk, festooned with lace at collar and cuffs. 'But this is a private booth, you can't just make yourself at home and expect us to…'

Darstok's gargantuan axe made a solid clumping sound as it settled to the boards of the table. It glinted malevolently in the gas-lamp light, a simple affair with not too much embellishment, functional in the extreme. The three boys paled and swallowed nervously. Darstok noticed the doormen start towards him, but they seemed to think better of it and turned away, trying to make it look like they'd merely wanted to stretch their aching calves.

Darstok gave the boys a gap-toothed grin through the steel-wool beard and moustaches and winked at them with his one good eye. They decided to find somewhere else to continue their conversation.

Adolf arrived with a massive stein of beer for the dwarf and a glass of fine white wine for himself.

'What's this, you fell off the wagon?' Darstok grunted as the wizard took an eloquent sip of his beverage.

'I have more refined tastes, these days, that's all,' he replied. Darstok guffawed and quaffed his own drink in one long, gurgling draught. The stein clattered loudly on the table as he slammed it back down.

'I'll get the next ones in, shall I?'

'Really, I'm fine with this…'

Darstok guffawed again.

'There was a time you could almost keep up with me, you old goat! What happened?'

'I think it was the experience of falling off one too many wagons, as it were…' Adolf quipped, unsuccessfully trying to resist smirking as the memories came flooding back. 'And I don't suppose you've forgotten the time I woke up in bed with an ogre after one too many drinks? Can't run the risk of that happening again…'

'No,' Darstok laughed. 'Cause then you'd be forced to commit bigamy!' The dwarf descended into a round of harsh hysterics as Adolf blushed in embarrassment. 'How is Gothmina, these days?' he teased.

'I can't say that I give a damn,' Adolf smiled.

The dwarf's good humour evaporated like mist.

'Let's get down to business.'

'Very well, old friend, here's the deal. I'm willing to tell you what you want to know, but I'm not willing to be your guide…'

'What!?'

'However, there is another possibility. You are not the first person to come to me expressing an interest in finding the Red Mountain. There is another.'

'Why can't you just give me a map? What's wrong with a good, old fashioned map, these days? Did they go out of fashion or something?'

'If it were to be seen by anyone, the witch-finders would be even less disposed to tolerance towards me than they already are. There can be nothing written down about that accursed chapter of my life.'

'You humans are far too uppity, I say.'

'I'm only exercising prudence. Anyway, as I was saying… another person came to me, having heard from one of my less wholesome contacts that I had been to the so-called Red Mountain. Oh, by the way, if you ever run across Adrel Freshbreeze I'd be most grateful if you were to separate the little grote's head from his shoulder…'

'My pleasure…' Darstok growled. Adolf continued.

'Anyway, this fellow wanted to know the route I took to get there.'

'And you told him?'

'He was a very rich man…'

'Ha! You always did have a shrewd streak to you, you old goat.'

'Quite. Anyway, I told him he'd best wait until the Spring before making the journey. If I know you it won't be too much of a hardship to track him down.'

The dwarf looked circumspect.

'I suppose not. Marienburg seems the most sensible place to set out from. But what if he doesn't co-operate?'

'I have every faith in your powers of… ah… persuasion, old friend.'

Darstok chuckled and lifted his eye-patch to reveal a second, perfectly healthy eye with which he winked at the old wizard mischievously before dropping it back into place. Adolf rolled his eyes at the gesture. Karzaki had adopted the patch for two reasons, firstly because it made him look every inch the rogue he was and secondly because it often caused people to underestimate him. He was fond of alleviating them of their delusions.

'Why don't you just come along, Adolf. It'll be just like old times!'

Adolf smiled grimly.

'I honestly can't think of anything else I'd rather do, old friend, but I must decline. I have work that demands my attention.'

'Damned academics! What do they call this fellow?'

'Moritar, Lothiri Moritar, I think. Noble blood but kind of a rough sort, if you take my meaning.'

'Sounds like my kind of scum then. Oh, by the way, if he doesn't co-operate, I'll be back to wring your neck for you until you spit out a map that I can follow.'

'I quite understand, old friend. Now, how about that other drink?'


End file.
